Lands of Gray (A Dark Souls Story) – Chapter 1

     “Get thee gone, vermin!”, came a shout from within the peaceful seclusion of the abandoned manor, “Yes, now wither, by the Old King’s decree!”. The screams of the poor, lost undead were no less heart-rending than the squeals of a wretched piglet, and its somber ashes flew into the golden sunset, past the towering monument in the distance. Knight Merloch was no trifle, he had slain the dreaded Giant down below Cardinal Fort, and now wielded a Longsword that glistened with the essence of flame within. As he strode outside the manor, he doubted the promises of the Herald, even as she looked on from afar. Merloch had come across many a trinket, some alluding to secrets older than his memory could recall, and their presence gave him a profound sense of curiosity. What was the dream he felt within the golden container past the broken gateway? It seemed to hold a sweet water, rejuvenating him instantly, yet blinding him momentarily. In his blindness, Merloch made out a golden silhouette, and the divine warmth of the Sun casting a halo right after. As the vision ended, Merloch was reminded of an almost motherly affection, a blessing he’d long forgotten the touch of, and it confused him.

        An estus-coated shard he’d found by the broken well seemed to reach out to his mind and show him sights through the eyes of those he could not see. “Who are you? Why am I here? Why do I kill?”, his mind had been broken by the time he arrived at the Firekeepers’ doorstep, and all his strength couldn’t bring back the memories of his past. All he remembered, was that he carried the Mark, and that he would die a dog’s death, same as the countless undead he’d slaughtered so far, and he would resurrect, and die, and resurrect again, over and over, till he too would become hollow within. He’d taken the name Merloch, awfully familiar, had soldiered on past hordes of rabid undead, and had now enough strength to take down the hulking iron automaton that ambushed him past the merchant hag’s retreat. It had the element of surprise before, but Knight Merloch was no trifle. He would slay the brute, and claim its soul just as he had the Giant’s. Merloch approached the emerald cloaked maiden by the bonfire, and knelt instinctively. She was his Herald, beckoning the arrival of a Champion who would persevere through this broken world, and claim it as its new Monarch. She had promised him much, and he would in turn stay true to the Blue Knight’s order. For now, he needed to carry on to the brutish automaton, and pay it back for the ambush.

          Merloch climbed onto the rooftop where the brute had attacked him, and became thoroughly disenchanted by its absence. “Damned scum, show thy blade and I shall wrest it from thy lifeless hands”, he screamed into the dead silence. He waited, to no avail, and proceeded to find yet another estus-coated shard a short distance away, gripped firmly in rotting hands, and as he touched it the visions came crashing back again. Before, they’d shown him the way to the Forest, the route to Cardinal Tower, and the grim entity locked at its depths. Now, however, the sights presented to him were different — a sun-kissed landing, a monolith broken in two, mindless Royal Guard attacking relentlessly, another corpse of those Giants taken root, and a lock that requires a specific key. “The key from the soldier’s corpse!”, Merloch had struck gold, “Praise the Lords i’d remembered to search the Giant’s cavern.”. He ventured forth, past the mild-mannered rascal that had attempted to dupe him earlier, and made it to the locked door from his visions. A swift turn of the key unlocked and shattered the rusted bolt, and Merloch tore through all that came his way, swiftly putting an end to anything that moved. Soon, however, he faced a fog blinding his vision of what lay beyond a stone pathway. This was all too familiar, for the same fog had lay guarding the Giant’s cavern deep below where he stood now. He felt a cold fear in his heart, this was a challenge that could finally test the Firekeepers‘ omens of rebirth. “Stand firm, Merloch, the Light will always guide you to glory”, he took a step past the suffocating fog, and found his foe.

         Knight Merloch woke from a nightmare, one too vivid to be simply his subconsciousness. He remembered the iron brute fatally impaling him with a sword larger than any human he’d seen, and he remembered the faint echoes of a promise reverberating in his mind as his body slowly faded away, ” Soul of the lost, withdrawn from its vessel. Let strength be granted so the world might be mended….so the world might be mended.“. It was awfully familiar, it gave him conniptions. He’d heard this before, somewhere, and it hurt his mind to be thinking about a past he couldn’t even remember. He reached out to his Estus Flask, and the rotting arm that caught his eye made him scream, ” I..no..this can’t..I can’t be!”. Oh, but he was indeed, and his rotting flesh was evidence profound. The dead never die in this world, and they bear the accursed Mark, are doomed to live through death and are denied the cold comforts of death’s embrace. Such was the dream that gave birth to the old world of Lords and Daemons, of Knights, Daemon Slayers, and a primal being that preceded them all. The dream bears fruit still, and the Knight Merloch is but a mere trifle.